


loose change for the boatman

by judlane



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, F/M, M/M, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-12 07:11:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10485237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/judlane/pseuds/judlane
Summary: “Stiles, do not go to the Preserve.”His dad had said that phrase a good dozen times after the severed body of a feral werewolf was found in the inner depths of the Hale territory.Stiles has never really been great at listening.





	1. hunger of the pine

**Author's Note:**

> more tags will be added as this story continues! please please please let me know if there any mistakes!  
> main title comes from the artist king charles  
> chapter title comes from the artist alt-j

_“Stiles, do not go to the Preserve.”_

His dad had said that phrase a good dozen times after the severed body of a feral werewolf was found in the inner depths of the Hale territory. 

Stiles has never really been great at listening.

It’s not illegal to enter the Hale territory, per se. The Hales open their land for human family camping trips and fishing in their streams and even some hiking, but in all honestly, no one has done any of those things in a long time. Despite being very rich and very werewolf-y, they aren’t half bad at all. Talia, the Alpha, holds meetings with his dad from time to time on protection and other various territory-related incidents, and his dad always gruffly talks about the Hales with respect. So sure, Stiles should definitely call in and tell the Hales that he’s wandering through their private-but-not land looking for a crime scene wielding only a taser and a flashlight that had seen better days, but the fear of his dad finding out kept his mouth shut. 

And his dad had already voiced his opinion on what he thought about Stiles looking for where a dead body had been sliced in half in the middle of the night, so running the word by the Hales really wasn’t much of an option at all. Not unless he wanted to be grounded. 

The beam of the flashlight is weak, but the light from the moon is enough that Stiles can easily maneuver around trees and underbrush. He’s only tripped twice since beginning his trek and both times it’s been over his own feet. Thank God Scott isn’t around. He’d be giving Stiles hell until he’d need a puff from his inhaler.

Stiles stops to gauge his surroundings, studying the map he may or may not have swiped from his dad’s office and then the compass. From the looks of it, he’s close, only ten minutes tops. It’d be a relief to stop now since his backpack is starting to cut in his shoulders and his thighs are cramping from the uneven terrain, but he can push on for a little while longer.

Stiles only makes it five more minutes.

There’s rustling behind him, a weird shuffling noise like someone dragging their feet and all of the sudden his heart is in his throat and he’s fumbling for his taser. The flashlight does nothing to penetrate through trees and thick bushes so Stiles is left squinting hard and praying to God above that a bunny pops out any second now.

The rustling stills.

Stiles doesn’t move.

And then a small hand is wrapping around his elbow and Stiles screams.

He tries to swing the taser, completely forgetting you're supposed to, y'know, turn it on, and gets nothing but air. As he flounders from his wasted momentum, he sees it.

A kid.

A small kid wearing a dinosaur shirt, faded jeans, and mucked up shoes. Dirty blond hair and light eyes and very much not a bunny or a potential killer (possibly). He doesn’t look any older than seven.

“Oh- oh shit, I’m sorry, fuck, oh my god,” Stiles pants and presses his hand to his chest. And then he realizes he’s pressing the taser against himself and squawks, hastily putting it away.

The kid looks nonplussed.

Taking a deep, deep breath, Stiles calms himself down. _Just a kid. Just a kid._

The kid’s eyes flash a very non-human yellow.

_Just a werewolf kid. Just a werewolf kid._

“Buddy, God, you scared me. What are you doing out here?”

The kid crosses his arms over his chest. “This is my aunt’s land. What are _you_ doing here?”

Well, he’s got Stiles there. Stiles rubs a hand over the back of his head and wonders if he should even try to lie. Werewolves are known to be walking polygraph tests so he’d be able to hear Stiles’ heartbeat stutter. 

“I- uh - was looking for something.” Not a lie.

The kid narrows his eyes and pinches up his face. “Looking for what?”

“Uh-”

Suddenly the kid tenses up like he’s been shocked and then the next thing Stiles knows, he’s being practically dragged behind a werewolf kid that barely stands above his waist. He would laugh at the absurdity of it, being saved by an ex-toddler, but the urgency in the boy’s eyes is enough to keep his mouth shut and legs moving.

Stiles doesn’t know what exactly they’re hauling ass from but he’s sure as hell isn’t going to wait around to find out. Anything that can spook a werewolf speaks volumes in a way Stiles really doesn’t want to understand.

They run for a few minutes, trampling through underbrush and skirting around trees, and then the kid starts to slow, fist still twisted in the front of Stiles’ shirt and glowing eyes blown wide. Stiles tries very hard to pretend like he doesn’t have a hitch in his side and that sweat has started to gather on his forehead. But then again he’s up against a werewolf kid so maybe he shouldn’t feel too bad.

Thank God Scott wasn’t here.

“What the hell was that?” Stiles asks once he gets his breath back. Should he be cussing in front of a kid? Do werewolves curse?

The kid frowns at something behind Stiles and then peers to their left.

“There’s someone out here,” is all he says, as ominous as a seven year old with a T-Rex on the front of his shirt can be. Which, honestly, is pretty damn eerie because a shiver slides down Stiles’ spine and he finds himself craning his neck around in search of - what?

“Humans?” Stiles asks.

The boy chews on his lower lip and nods.

“They could be kids, just running around. Or looking for something like I was.” He’s babbling, he knows that, but his nerves are humming underneath his skin and it’s starting to get hard to breathe. What were other people doing out here? In search of the crime scene? Teenagers having a good 'ol rendezvous?

Hunters looking for their next prey? Someone else to cut in half? Did it matter that Stiles was human? Is it a first-come, first-slice-n-dice-in-half sort of deal?

Stiles gets his answers when an arrow buries itself in the tree just left of him.

They’re both running before they take their next breath.

The boy is faster, obviously, but fear is a good incentive for Stiles to keep up. His body is cramping and it’s hard to breathe from both the exertion and impending panic attack, but the discomforts feel distant. All he can focus on is the blur of the kid’s shirt in front of him and pounding of feet on the forest floor. Are they getting away? Are they even being chased?

Another arrow glances off a tree.

Stiles picks up the pace.

The trees are starting to thin, Stiles can tell that, and suddenly doesn’t know if the direction their hurtling towards is a good option. If they get caught out in an open field, it’s like painting a target on their back and standing still. At least in the woods they can bob and weave behind some semblance of obstacles or even possibly lose them. 

There’s a hissing noise and then a sharp, gruesome pain in his shoulder and Stiles is stumbling to the ground as he tries to suck in a breath. An arrow. An arrow is sticking out of his shoulder. The tip is dark and there’s blood leeching through his shirt. Stomach rolling, Stiles pushes himself back up to his feet and the world tilts dangerously to the side.

_Keep running. Keep running._

His shoulder smarts every time his feet hit the ground, every time he sucks in a breath, every time he twists his body to look behind him. He can’t see them but he can hear them now. Low whistles and heavy boots. Metallic jostling.

Stiles wants to shrug off his backpack to lessen the weight, but with the arrow running him through he wouldn’t be able to get the strap off without curling up in a ball of pain.

_Keep running. Keep running._

He pushes himself to keep going. Past another tree, down another small ravine, scramble up a hill. He stumbles into a tree as he slides down a dip and nearly screams when the arrow bends at an angle. His shirt is dark now with blood and he can feel the sticky slide of it down his chest and side, but tries to focus on not tripping over any roots.

Stiles has lost the kid or maybe it’s the other way around. He can’t blame him. Stiles would’ve hauled ass to safety too, to hell with anyone else. Except for Scott. But if Scott was here they’d already be captured or dead. He can barely run a hundred steps without doubling over for his inhaler.

A low whistle sounds just behind him and Stiles spurs himself to go faster. He can practically feel hot breath on the back of his neck and the hiss of another arrow.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ he needs to get to his phone. But his phone is in his backpack which he can’t fucking open because of the fucking arrow in his fucking shoulder. He’s fucked. Stiles is fucked. He’s read horror books like this. Humans being hunted like animals and then kept in cages and starved and he tries to push back the swell of tears burning hotly.

He can’t leave his dad all alone.

“What are you _doing?”_

Stiles nearly face plants as he skitters to a stop and looks to his left.

The kid is hiding behind a tree, sweat matting his hair to his forehead and chest heaving. He looks terrified. When he spots the arrow in Stiles’ shoulder, his eyes widen even more.

“You got shot?”

“Nah,” Stiles retorts and then remembers where he is and what’s happening. His shoulder is burning like something terrible and his arms are starting to feel numb. This isn’t good. This really isn’t good.

The kid cranes his head around the tree and then hurriedly gestures for Stiles to follow him. And Stiles does because so far the kid hasn’t shot an arrow through him.

They don’t run as fast, most likely because it doesn’t seem the hunters are closer anymore or maybe because they’re just exhausted. It’s getting hard to focus on keeping upright and black dots are swimming in Stiles’ vision. He shakes his head harshly and pushes down the roll of nausea. He can have the panic attack later. Right now he needs to get out alive.

Every couple of minutes the boy stops and cocks his head, listening for something before starting off again. After their third momentary break, Stiles speaks up.

“What’s your name?”

The boy eyes him and then pinches his face in a weird expression. “Liam.”

“I’m Stiles.”

A whistle sounds out behind them and they’re running again.

It’s like they’re being played with. Like how killer whales capture their prey, wound it, let it escape, and then start the hunt all over again.

Something flashes to their left, ahead of them a distance, like a flashlight. No, too reflective to be a flashlight. Metal. A gun.

At a distance, Stiles can feel himself suddenly picking up speed, gaining on Liam who doesn’t seem to notice the gun. It’s like someone else is controlling his body when he yanks the boy hard and shoves him in a different direction. Away from the gun.

“Liam, get down-”

There’s a terrible, sharp pain in Stiles’ stomach.

He hits the ground rolling. Agony shoots through his shoulder as the arrow twists but then all he can feel is burning. It feels like he’s being burned from the inside out and there’s a ringing in his ears. There’s someone shouting but then he realizes that it’s him. He’s screaming.

Blood pools between his fingertips and onto the leaves underneath him. He can’t breathe. His skin slides against the blood and then something fleshy, and yeah that’s his guts hanging out from the exit wound. He’s dying.

“Stiles!” Liam is squatting down in front of him, his face pale and streaked with fear.

“Get out of here,” Stiles gasps and sucks in a hard breath that sends more blood washing over his hands. Fuck. It looks like it went straight through, which is somewhat good. But he’s still bleeding out in the middle of the forest with a seven year-old werewolf boy while hunters trail them.

“C’mon, my house is right there, we can-”

Mustering up his strength, Stiles shoves Liam hard with one hand. The kid skitters backwards.

“Get _out_ of here, Liam,” he snarls.

Liam shoots to his feet, looks behind his shoulder and back to Stiles. And then he’s gone. Stiles is alone.

He tries to keep the pressure on his stomach but it’s too painful. He just cups his hands over the wound and prays that the bleeding slows or that none of his organs are ruptured. He can feel the warmth of the blood and his hands are shaking so bad and, fuck, fuck it all he’s dying. He’s fucking dying.

Stiles is dying and he’s never been kissed. He’s never gone to a school dance with a partner. Him and Scott were supposed to have a board game marathon this weekend. His dad was going to take him fishing when the weather warmed up.

His dad. God, he couldn’t leave him alone. He just couldn’t.

Fuck.

Pushing down his screams until they escaped as whimpers, Stiles slowly sat up and pulled one arm free from the strap of his backpack. And then maneuvered his other arm out and, shit, that hurt, but right now the bullet wound in his stomach was a little more concerning. He needed to staunch the bleeding the best he could.

There was a towel he had stuffed in his backpack, just because Stiles liked to be prepare (although he had never thought he’d be using it to wrap around his gut to keep his insides, well, inside), and then his map and compass. His hands are shaking so hard he can barely hold on to both, but he manages to discern that he must be a fifteen minute walk from the nearest road. But what if he’s walking directly to the hunters?

That was a chance he was going to have to take. Much better than sitting around.

The only problem was he would have to stand up. And then walk.

Tying the towel was torture and then getting his feet underneath himself. He can this. He can do this.

Once he’s managed to get upright, he stills and listens. It’s as if nothing has happened in the last what - 15 minutes? The forest is quiet around Stiles. Which could mean the hunters were after the kid which was an even more terrifying thought. He had half a mind to go after Liam, but his gut bleeding out was kind of a liability. The only thing he could hope for was that the kid had made it to his house.

The Hale house. On the Hale preserve. Where he was not supposed to be. And where he could possibly die. Shit, if he lived through this, he was going to be in the deep end with his dad.

His body grows numb as he walks, stumbling more than anything, which is not a really good sign, but then again he doesn’t feel the pain as much. A lesser of two evils sort of deal. His backpack hanging off one shoulder is a thousand pounds and the map in his hands is starting to sag from his bloodied fingers, but he’s getting close. Or at least he thinks he is. Everything is a haze. For all Stiles knew, he could be hallucinating the entire thing and still be curled up on the forest floor screaming. 

By the time he breaks out from the forest and onto the overgrown road that runs straight through Beacon Hills, there are black spots dancing across his vision. His clothes are completely soaked through and it’s hard to breathe, and when he stumbles onto the cracked pavement, he goes down hard.

The last thing he sees before his eyes flutter close are approaching headlights.

\---

Cold feet. Soft blankets. The worst case of cotton mouth Stiles has ever experienced in his entire life.

Slowly, slowly he opens his eyes.

A ceiling. Simple. Plain. 

“Stiles?”

Swallowing, Stiles looks over and there’s his dad, half-raised out of his seat with red-rimmed eyes. He looks like shit.

“Dad?” The word cuts at the inside of his throat like knives but it’s worth it to see the utter relief on his dad’s face.

“Oh- oh thank God.” John cages Stiles’ face with his rough palms and presses a hard kiss to the crown of his head. “Oh God, thank you.”

A lump forms in the back of Stiles’ throat and he wills himself to not cry, dammit. But when he buries his face into his dad’s chest, the fabric grows damper and damper.

They sit like that, leaning heavily on one another until the door opens. Melissa stands in the hallway, face drawn and worried. When she sees Stiles awake, she hurries over and presses her own kiss to his hair.

"You idiot," she admonishes fondly while cupping his face. Stiles can't help but smile sheepishly. 

He lets them have their moment, before putting a hand over his heavily bandaged stomach. "So... what happened?"

John drags a hand over his face and sighs deeply at the question. A few moments pass and then he’s suddenly the Sheriff, not his dad.

“You went to the Preserve. After I specifically told you not to go.”

Oh. Yeah. He had done that. Okay.

Stiles shrinks and waits for the dad berating that has no doubt accumulated while he was out for the count, but it never comes.

“You saved a kid’s life.”

“I- uh - what?”

Stiles can somewhat remember a shirt with a dinosaur on the front. Yellow wolf eyes. A small voice. Metal glinting in the moonlight. It feels like a dream.

“A Hale kid. Apparently would’ve been our next murder case if it hadn’t been for you.”

He took a bullet for a kid? A Hale kid? Right. He did. Fuck, he saved a werewolf’s life. A Hale’s life. Fuck.

“Is he okay?” Stiles can’t help but ask.

His dad nods. “A little shaken up but, otherwise, he’s fine. You, on the other hand, are _not_ fine.”

Oh. There’s the Sheriff voice.

“You nearly flat-lined. Bullet cut right through you, which is good, but tore up a few things. The arrow only tore muscle and nothing serious. You’re going to need to stay in bed for a few weeks and take your antibiotics if you don’t want it to get worst. So, what I mean by that Stiles, is you are going to _lay on your bed_. That’s it. You need to piss? You call for me or Melissa or Scott, or hell, son, call Mrs. Walsh across the street. But other than that you aren’t going to move. Do I make myself clear?”

Stiles nods.

“Yes sir.”

His dad gives him a hard, searching look before exhaling and pillowing him into another hug.

“I’m glad you’re okay, son.”

“Me too.”

“You can’t do that to me again.”

“I won’t.”

A snort. “Yeah, sure.”

\---

Stiles listens.

It’s the guilt, mostly, that keeps him from sneaking out of his bed. That and the excruciating pain every time he tries to sit up. So he spends the week after he’s released from Melissa’s care lounging around and either sleeping or researching what he can about the Hales without using up their internet ration.

He knows the basics. A war broke out between humans and the supernatural which very quickly turned into the depletion of the human population. For a good thirty years the supernatural held reign over most of America with people finding little pockets of civilization to survive. That’s what Beacon Hills had been, until the Hales, who had already been prestige and influential, revealed themselves to be werewolves. And also that they had been protecting Beacon Hills from other nasties like wendigos or ghouls.

So, sure, some people revolted like the Argents who had been swiftly expelled from the territory, but for most people it was like picking which side of hell you wanted to be on. Again, lesser of two evils. Although the Hales aren’t really evil - they mostly keep to themselves even when they do lend their land out to the population. Stiles is pretty sure his dad is one of the few people who have even met the actual members of the Hale pack.

That train of thought led him scrounging up what he could on the members - there was Talia, the Alpha, with her mate Markus and their three children. Laura, Derek, and Cora. Peter, Talia’s left hand man and younger brother. And that appeared to be it. Stiles knew there had to be more, especially since wolf packs tended to get larger to compensate for their territory, but his searches were fruitless.

No Liam. A swirl of guilt settles just below Stiles’ diaphragm. 

After three days of bed rest, Stiles has more questions than answers.

His dad checks in on him in between shifts or on his lunch break. He always peeks around the corner like he’s half-expecting to find Stiles doing yoga or holding a debate club instead of what he’s meant to do. Stiles feels like he should be offended, but then again, not listening to his dad is what got them in this situation in the first place. He’ll let it slide, for now.

Stiles is reading a book when his dad peeks around the corner, eyebrows raised and smiles slightly.

“Hey son, how’re you holding up?”

“So-so. No horrendous infection or split stitches. I’ve got to piss like a racehorse though.”

“Y’know, a simple ‘Dad, can you please help me to the restroom’ will suffice.”

Stiles waves a hand flippantly. “I plead on the case I’ve got a giant hole in my stomach.”

John rolls his eyes and sits on the edge of Stiles’ bed, hand warm where it rests on his ankle. “You don’t have a giant hole in your stomach. You _did_ have a giant hole in your stomach. You’ve got a healing hole in your stomach.”

“Details, details. I really do have to piss though.”

His dad helps him to the bathroom and lets Stiles do his thing before settling him back in his bed. There’s a dip that’s starting to form which perfectly molds to his body.

“I’ve got something for you.”

“Oh yeah?”

John nods and digs into his pocket to pull out a folded sheet of paper. “It came in an envelope. Hale family.”

Stiles scrambles for the note and hisses when his stitches tug. John gives him a look and hands it over.

The paper is thick, not like the leathery kind in school, and the handwriting is neat and straight. There’s even a wax symbol of a triskelion at the bottom.

 _Dearest Stiles Stilinski,_  
_I have been informed that you saved one of my pack member's life while sustaining injuries. I have kept up with your recovery and am pleased to hear you are healing fine. I applaud you for your bravery and courage._  
_For this, I ask you and your family to join us for dinner at any date of your choosing. Although I will have to ask you refrain from any afternoon on the night of the Full Moon. My pack has been yearning to thank you in person, as have I._  
_I hope you can find it in_ _your heart to join us._  
_Your Alpha, Talia Hale_

“Dad, oh my God, Dad they-”

John nods his head earnestly. “I know son, I read it.”

Stiles can’t help but feel a little offended at that. “You read my mail?” He’s not pouting.

“I had to make sure it wasn’t a death threat, son. You were shot. Twice. By an arrow and a bullet.”

“Geez, thanks, I sure did forget!”

John narrows his eyes at him and then raises an eyebrow. “So? What’s your answer?”

“Uh - yes? Do I have to think about this? It’s the Hales, dad. We can’t just say no.”

“Sure we can.”

“And get the stink eye for the rest of our lives? No thank you.” Stiles runs his hands over the raised wax at the bottom of the paper. “Do you think Scott and Melissa can come?”

“It does say ‘family’.”

Stiles can’t help but grin at that.

John smiles back and reaches over to run his hand over Stiles’ hair and drop a kiss on his brow.

“Get some sleep, son.”


	2. wring out each memory til' i get every drop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please let me know of any mistakes  
> i'll correct them later after i wake up!  
> thank you so much for reading!  
> chapter title comes from: things happen - dawes

Lydia is thoroughly unimpressed with Stiles.

It’s obvious by the way she’s crossing her legs and flicking her hair over her shoulder while she narrows her eyes at the bandages around his stomach. Stiles had thought about something like this happening before (Lydia being in his room with his shirt off) - but with less wounds and greasy hair and maybe more sexual tension. Stiles is very far from sexy right now. The furthest. Four days without a decent shower will do that to you.

“You were shot,” Lydia says, “by both a gun and an arrow.”

“Yes. Yes, that’s correct.”

“In the same night.”

“Yes.”

“On the Hale territory which, by the way, where you were _not_ supposed to be.”

“Lydia, God, yes. I get it, okay? Stiles dumb. Stiles dumb boy.” He wants to throw himself back on his pillows and pout but moving isn’t really his forte right now.

She shoots him a sharp look and sighs, shoulders slouching a little.

“Has your dad heard anything else from the Hales? Besides the letter?”

John had so far skirted around anything and everything to do with the Preserve, even going so far as physically leaving the room to escape Stiles’ prying questions. It’s insulting, really, because his dad knows he can’t really stand yet. Stiles had tried his own research but, again, nothing.

“Nothing,” Stiles confirms and shifts to get a little more comfortable.

“Do you think you were the target? Or the Hale kid?”

“Honestly, I have no clue. I’ve been asking myself the same thing. But who goes after a seven year old werewolf kid?”

“Who cuts a werewolf in half and hangs them up from a tree?” Lydia counters.

“They wouldn’t just shoot a kid,” Stiles replies hastily. Why’s he defending the hunters? They shot him. Twice. But something isn’t sitting right with him. A weird, hollow feeling at the base of his stomach is telling him to keep looking. For what? For who?

“Stiles.” Lydia reaches over and places her hands over Stiles’ where they’re wringing on the bedspread. The coldness of her palms startle him for a moment. If this had happened a year ago, Stiles would’ve creamed himself in a second. But now it just felt safe, calm, grounding. “They _did_ shoot a kid.”

Stiles isn’t technically kid - he’s seventeen bordering on eighteen, but he sure as hell isn’t a middle aged feral werewolf. He’s probably the furthest thing from any supernatural unless you count his ability to pull all-nighters.

Exhaustion settles deep in his bones and his eyes sting so he lets them slide close. Lydia squeezes his hands and lets out a low sigh. The hunters, whoever they were, had wanted to kill him. And a seven year old boy. If they had gotten away with it, would Stiles be strung up somewhere in the woods? Would his dad be the one who found him?

He doesn’t even register he’s crying until Lydia is wiping at his cheeks softly. He cracks his eyes open and she’s looking at him, face drawn and tense. He reaches up and covers her hands with his own and she smiles, just slightly.

They sit in silence for a long moment before Lydia sits back and crosses her arms over her chest.

“Now that’s over, I’m actually here to inform you that I’m mad at you.”

Stiles forces down a grin and quirkes up his eyebrows instead. “What for?”

“You’re bringing Scott to your dinner and not me.”

“Scott’s my brother,” Stiles groans and rolls his eyes. Lydia whacks at his knee harshly and he yelps.

“I’m also your best friend, you idiot.”

Stiles squints his eyes at her and then lets himself smile. “You just want to see if it’s true.”

Lydia flips her hair over her shoulder. “If what’s true?”

“If the Hale family is hot.”

“Uh,” Lydia inspects her nails with a disinterest before meeting Stiles’ eyes, “duh.”

Laughing hurts Stiles’ stomach, but he does it anyways.

He laughs even harder when Scott comes careening into his room a good while later, arm full of Stiles’ missed schoolwork and eyes wet, sobbing out “You called me your _brother!_ ”

\---

Stiles wakes up in a cold sweat every night.

He dreams of running through the woods but this time he knows what’s behind him. It whistles, high to low. Stiles can practically feel breath on the back of his neck.

There’s no arrow in his shoulder but the dark patch of blood remains, spreading farther and farther until it coats his entire side. In the dream, everything is gray and black and smudged like lines of charcoal smeared on concrete.

And every night he feels hands close around his shoulders, fingers and claws pressing in and through his skin, and they drag him back.

Sometimes when he wakes up he knows where he is. Sometimes when he wakes up he can still see the dark trees looming over his bed and he screams so hard his gut smarts and he nearly retches.

His dad wants him to see help, professional help, but that costs too much in the world they live in now. Stiles just tells him that they’ll fade, just like the nightmares faded after his mom died.

John looks at him like he doesn’t believe him. Stiles doesn’t either.

\---

“Dude. You getting shot was the best thing to happen in the entire world,” Scott informs Stiles as they both are getting ready.

Stiles squawks in indignation and nearly tears a button off his shirt. Actually, it’s his dad’s shirt from when he was younger which is pretty obvious from its weird groovy pattern and slightly threadbare ends. They don’t have a lot of nice clothes anymore, not with the state anything was in, but it’s the best they could do. Plus, Stiles sorta kinda likes it even if Scott nearly sent himself into an attack from laughing so hard.

“You look like you should have mutt chops,” he had snickered. Stiles had threatened to revoke his invitation and that got him to shut up. For a little bit at least.

It’s been three weeks since he received the letter from Talia Hale. He had wanted to go right away, but his dad assured him the Hales could wait until he didn’t have a gaping hole in his abdomen. So he had waited, laying in his bed and then slowly graduating to shuffling around and even going down the stairs once or twice. It was slow, painstakingly slow, but he got better.

The only thing left from the bullet was a puckered still-healing scar and a dull throb every now and then. He could walk normally and even bent down the other day without getting stuck or crying. Progress.

“Kidding! Kidding!” Scott quickly says.

“Uh huh,” Stiles replies and does up the last button. Brushing his fingers through his hair, he turns to look in the mirror. “Oh God.”

Scott’s head snaps up. “What?”

“I _do_ look like I should have mutton chops.”

\--

“Listen up. Boys - _Stiles, stop it_ \- are you two listening?”

“Yes,” Both Stiles and Scott intone from the backseat.

John shoots Melissa a look who’s trying to hide her grin and rolls his eyes.

“You two are going to be on your best behavior. The best. This means no sarcastic comments, no dares, no make-Scott-have-an-asthma-attack antics, nothing, nada, zilch. Let me put it in perspective. We are peasants and the Hales are the Royal Family. So, for God’s sake, just act normal for once.”

Scott frowns and then raises his hand sheepishly.

“Scott, son, you don’t have to raise your hand. We’re not in school.”

“Oh. I was just wondering what if they wolf out on us?”

John raises an eyebrow and starts up Melissa’s car. “How about we don’t give them a reason to wolf out on us?”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Can I ask a question too?” Stiles says, leaning in-between the two front seats with a shit-eating grin.

“No,” comes the response from both John and Melissa.

Huffing, Stiles sits back. Whatever.

The ride to the Hale’s house is a long and bumpy one. The road is overgrown and eroding into the ground, more potholes than actual pavement, but his dad easily guides the car around the worst it. Most people don’t have cars anymore either because they opted to use the metal for something more useful like bordering up their homes or because they didn’t have the resources to upkeep it. Abandoned cars alongside the road were as common as weeds and Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever gone a day without seeing one.

His dad had always talked about getting a group together to clear up the roads a little bit but so far nothing has been done. He was probably more busy with the whole werewolf sliced in half thing, but who knows.

The road shifts from pavement to a soft, cleared forest path. Scott is practically glued to his window as he watches trees roll by, and Stiles realizes it’s because he’s never been inside the Preserve before. They used to skirt around the treeline as kids, but never dared to go farther. Children used to flock to the edge of the forest during the nights of full moons and listened in to the howls. And even would try and howl back, a poor imitation ruined by giggling and spluttering.

Stiles had done that, once, with Scott who had subsequently tumbled himself head over heels in an asthma attack. He had thrown his head back and howled until he was red in the face and sucking in breaths. He pretended the tears running down his face were from the lack of oxygen and not from the stabbing pain over his mother’s death.

He still remembers how the forest had suddenly quieted when he howled, like it was listening to his pain and his anger and _she wasn’t supposed to leave me, not yet, what am I supposed to do?_ And then the answering howls had returned with such a force it sent him and Scott scattering backwards.

They had scurried home in fear and bundled themselves up inside Scott’s pillow fort and wasted the rest of the night drawing anti-werewolf propaganda as seriously as the then eight-year olds could scrounge up. Mrs. McCall had found the crude pieces and gave them a stern talking to the next afternoon about how the Hales were protectors and deserved respect.

But ever since Scott had suffered from terrible nightmares. He’d always shake Stiles awake in the dead of night and whimper about getting bit by a beast. The nightmares had teetered out over the years though, but Stiles wondered if he still was scared.

From the way he was wringing his hands, he was.

“Do you think they’re going to have whole deer there?” Stiles asks loudly, hopefully louder than Scott’s worrying thoughts.

John looks at him through the rear view mirror.

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t _think_ so? So that leaves the possibility that there are going to be whole deer, sprawled out on a picnic table, and we’re going to have to just dig in. Because refusing food is impolite. Especially to a wolf pack.”

“Stiles, there will be no carcasses of any kind on any table.”

“We’ll see, we’ll see,” Stiles sing songs and grins at his dad’s exasperated sigh.

Scott perks up slightly. “I hope they have mac and cheese. I haven’t had it in so long.”

“I hope they have ribs,” Melissa shoots back. “Big, juicy ribs.”

Scott wrinkles his nose. “Gross, mom, don’t say juicy.”

Melissa turns in her seat to wriggle her eyebrows at the both of them and mouths ‘juicy’ and even goes so far as to side-eye John, who is looking entirely too smug.

“Gross,” they both groan.

The conversation ranges from one upping each other on what’s for dinner to making fun of Stiles shirt and by extension John’s fashion choices. But it slowly dies out as John rounds a long bend and the trees thin out.

Nervousness buzzes underneath Stiles’ skin and he fidgets with the stray strings at the bottom of his shirt just to keep his hands occupied.

The Hale house looms overhead and John slowly breaks as they all take in the sight.

It’s a huge, hulking house, three stories high and wide enough that four of Stiles’ own house could fit inside with plenty of wiggle room. Other, much smaller, houses lay in a formation around it but still well-kept and of a decent sized.

Everything was so - open. Stiles had been expecting an iron gate, fenced in yards and ten foot tall walls. Wolves stalking back and forth as they stood guard. Moats. Maybe a strung up prisoner of war here and there. But there was none of that.

“Okay,” John says, sounding slightly strangled, “Okay. Okay this is fine. We are going to be fine. Just remember to behave everyone.”

“Haven’t you been here before?” Stiles asks. John’s knuckles are white around the steering wheel.

John swallows audibly. “No, we always meet either at the station or in the woods. There’s a meeting place, something about a halfway mark. Equal effort from both sides. Wolf thing.”

“Yeah,” Scott whimpers, “Wolf things.”

Melissa reaches behind to grip Scott’s knee and he covers her hand with both of his own. “We’re going to be fine everyone. It’s just a big house.”

“A big house full of werewolves,” Stiles replies.

John nudges the car forward and it creeps down the main path to the Hale house. The smaller houses they pass look lived in but empty at the moment. There’s plants hanging from the front porches and gardens flanking the sides and it almost looks like a village out of a storybook. _My, what big houses you have, Grandma._

“A house full of werewolves which are here to thank you,” Melissa admonishes.

Right. He needs to remember that.

There’s no one in sight when John pulls up to the front and kills the engine. They sit there, in silence, for a long moment, just looking up at the huge house before John finally rubs his hands together.

“Okay. Yup. Alright, let’s get this show on the road.”

Once outside the car, Stiles can hear laughter and the hum of voices just behind the house. Many voices.

God, Stiles is going to have a panic attack. And from the paleness of Scott’s face, he’s one wrong move from sucking on his inhaler. What a pair they made.

John’s hands are warm when they drop around Stiles’ shoulders and slowly start pushing him up the front steps and onto the wrap-around porch. The huge double doors loom in front of them, a wolf-head knocker sitting dead center.

“Do we knock?” Scott whispers into Stiles’ ear. “Like, with our fists or the wolf head thingy? Wouldn’t that be rude? Knocking the wolf head? Is this a test? Oh God, Stiles, I’m going to shi-”

The rest of Scott’s frantic rant is lost when the door swings open.

A tall woman stands in the doorway. She’s beautiful with dark hair and a strong face, dark brown eyes and full lips. She’s dressed in an orange summer dress, strapless and flowing, and wow, she’s got the biggest biceps Stiles has ever seen on a woman.

“Sheriff,” she says fondly, and quickly steps aside to usher them all inside the foyer. Stiles tries not to stare at the giant chandelier hanging from the roof too long.

“Alpha Talia, it’s good to see you,” His dad replies. “Thank you so much for having us.”

Talia smiles, eyes crinkling slightly, and looks over them with warmth. “Of course, it’s an honor.”

Scott snaps his head over to look at Stiles and raises his eyebrows. “Honor,” he whispers and nudges Stiles in the side.

“I see our guests have arrived,” a deep voice booms from just behind Scott and Stiles. They both squawk and whirl around, nearly tripping over each other in their haste.

The man had to be Markus Hale. He’s tall, taller than Talia with a barrel-chest and groomed salt-n-pepper beard and thick eyebrows. His eyes are light, however, and laugh lines crinkle along the sides of his face. A jagged scar cuts from the middle of his left cheek, not unlike a dimple, and disappears into his facial hair.

Markus grins down at the both of them before holding out his hand to his dad. “Sheriff, pleasure to see you again.”

John quickly shakes his hand before tugging Melissa closer. The entire time she had been looking around with wide eyes, obviously a little blindsided.. “This is my nei - I mean, my girlfriend, Melissa.” Melissa quickly steps forward and takes Markus’ hand, smiling radiantly.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Scott suddenly barks, surprising everyone with the volume of his voice.

“Yeah, wait a second here,” Stiles backs him up and points John and Melissa with a hard stare.

They both look sheepish.

“When did that happen?” Scott implores, brow furrowed.

“Scott, I was going to talk to you when we got home -”

“But when.”

Melissa sighs, resigned. “Three months ago.”

“During Thanksgiving?”

“Yes, now can we please-”

“Dude! Fifteen bucks, come on, cough it up,” Stiles crows and sticks his hand out to wiggle his fingers in Scott’s face.

He groans but dutifully pulls out his wallet and shoves the crumpled bills into Stiles’ palm.

To their surprise, both Markus and Talia laugh and seem amused by the situation rather than awkward. John, however, frowns over at the two of them.

“Stiles, you put a bet on our relationship?”

“Uh, yeah?” Stiles muses as he shoves the money into his slacks pocket.

John looks like he’s ready to tear him a new one, but Talia quickly steps forward.

“You must be Stiles,” she warmly says, smiling down at him. Flushing, Stiles has to swallow twice before he can find his voice to reply.

“Uh, yes ma’am, or uh, Yes Alpha.”

Talia laughs, not unkindly, and extends both her hands to him. Slowly, he puts his palms on top her upturned ones. Her hands are warm and soft, long fingers wrapping around his own.

“I would like to humbly thank you for everything you’ve done for my family,” she says reverently, head dipping down slightly.

“You’re welcome?” Stiles squeaks and hopes his palms aren’t too sweaty.

Markus steps forward alongside Talia and puts a large hand around Stiles’ shoulder. “You’re a good man, Stiles.”

God, Stiles is going to faint. He really is.

Talia lets go of one of his hands to turn to his dad. “Come, all the food is out back. The rest of the pack has been excited about meeting you all.”

The rest of the house is just as grand as the outside, marble floors and long stairs and fancy paintings adorning the walls. Most of the doors they pass are closed, but Stiles can glimpse several sitting rooms and an overflowing bookshelf before they’re out on the back porch.

Stiles realizes now that the reason the internet didn’t list the rest of the Hale pack was because they probably wouldn’t be able to.

There had to be at least fifty people milling around on the grass, countless kids tussling each other on the ground and teenagers condensed to one picnic bench. At the center of it all was a six tables long worth of food, meat and vegetables and dessert and holy God. There was mac ‘n cheese. There was peach cobbler and ice cream.

Stiles had only eaten ice cream once when he was eight.

To his surprise, no one immediately rushes over to smother him or fall to their knees or wolf out. Some adults looked over when the back door shuts, nodded their head, and then went back to their conversation. Some kids stopped their beat downs to acknowledge Stiles but it felt more like he was being sized up.

“Please,” Talia says as she lightly prods both Stiles and Scott forward, “help yourself. What is ours is yours.”

Scott didn’t need any more prompting. He zeroed in on the mac ‘n cheese and didn’t even seem to care he was in the middle of a werewolf pack. Stiles follows him, slower as he eyes the werewolves.

They don’t seem any different than regular people. Actually, that’s a lie. They’re healthier and bigger, not twiggy like Stiles or Scott. They’re obviously living well with full meals everyday. And there’s something fluid about them. Their gestures are too calculated, body language tuned flawlessly. Must be a wolf thing. 

Scott has two plates stacked high with mac ‘n cheese and ribs and is juggling three buttered rolls when Stiles steps beside him.

“I take it back,” Scott says around a bite of his roll, “You getting shot was definitely the best thing to happen in the entire world.”

A hum of laughter reverberates around them and they both whip their head around in shock.

“Dude, can they hear us?” Scott leans close and hisses.

“They’re _werewolves_.”

“Just because you say it like that doesn’t mean I still know what you’re talking about.”

“Scotty, they’re part wolf. That means they’ve got like super strength and hearing and shit. They’re probably listening to us right now.”

“You two are dumb.”

Stiles is really getting tired of the whole sneaking up thing. He was pretty much over it that night in the forest.

The girl is beautiful, several years younger than Stiles, and nearly a spitting image of Talia. Save for the disgruntled expression.

"Uh, what?"

“I said you two are dumb.” She rolls her eyes so hard they nearly fly out of her head.

 “I’m sorry,” Scott swallows his food down, “but who are you?”

“I’m Cora,” She replies, hand shooting out in a fist.

Stiles and Scott scramble back, plates falling to the ground in favor of grappling at each other.

Cora furrows her brow and looks between the two of them. “What’s wrong with you two? Aren’t you going to shake it?”

“Sh-shake it?” Scott parrots.

“My hand. Don’t you humans do that?”

“You want a handshake?” Stiles confirms as his heart stops galloping in his chest. Cora rolls her eyes again and wow, she has really got that down. She doesn’t say anything but shakes her outstretched fist impatiently. “Okay, first off, uh, gotta stop with the whole fist thing you’ve got going on. Like this.”

Stiles holds out an open palm. Scott’s hold on the collar of his shirt tightens.

Cora mimes him and steps forward and Stiles lets her slot their hands together. Her hand is so lightly around his it feels as if he isn’t really touching her at all.

“I’m Stiles,” He says and slowly starts to shake her hand. Cora looks down and then up and then down again.

The bones in Stiles hands creak when her hold tightens and she begins to really shake his hand. To the point that yup, his shoulder is about to dislocate or his arm is about to snap in half or, hell, maybe his entire arm-

“Cora!” A much taller girl rips Cora away from Stiles with a patronizing expression. “You aren’t supposed to touch the humans without their permission.”

“He _told_ me I could shake his hand, Laura,” Cora replies, petulant. Her eyes flash at Stiles and he is never going to get used to that.

Laura raises an eyebrow. “Probably not a good idea.”

“No,” Stiles wheezes as he nurses his tingling arm, “not a good idea. No offense though.”

Cora’s eyes flash again. Scott squeaks.

Laura shoots her a harsh look before offering a small smile. “I’m Laura. You must be Stiles and…”

“Scott! I’m Scott McCall.”

“Scott,” Laura finishes with a wider smile and Scott’s cheeks darken. Instant crush, bingo. “We’ve heard so much about you. Do you want to come sit with us?”

‘Us’ turns out to be a picnic table full of werewolf teenagers, all beautiful and handsome and werewolf-y. Laura gestures for them to sit in the open space at the end after they’ve gotten new plates, piled high with various meats and bread and pasta.

“And I’m telling you, I won,” A boy with light curly hair snaps across the table at a feisty looking blondie who looked like she could care less about the entire conversation.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, Isaac,” she waves him off and then leans on the huge, dark-skinned man on her right, pressing her face against his neck. The rumble that vibrates out of his chest has Stiles white-knuckling his plate.

They don’t even look up as Stiles and Scott dig in, which is kind of a relief but also kind of rude. Not to toot his own horn, but Stiles thought he was going to be kind of a bigger deal. He did get shot. Twice. By two different weapons. On the same night.

No biggie though.

Scott shovels spoonful after spoonful of mac and cheese into his mouth and at his earnest nod, Stiles follows suit and, fuck, this has got to be the best thing Stiles has ever eaten in his entire life.

Rations aren’t that bad. There’s bread and cans and processed food, things that are easy to make or can be eaten cold. John told Stiles that when he was younger it was really bad. Riots broke out all over the country as food diminished and more people ended up starving than actually being killed by a supernatural in the end. Stiles was curious about those days - before the Hale’s protection. But whenever he brought it up, his dad would get a far away look in his eyes and his hands would tremble. So Stiles stuck to his lackluster history lessons and what he could dig up on the web.

So the barbecue soaked rib in his hands right now? Heaven.

Werewolves and hunters float to the farthest corner of Stiles’ mind as he tears through his plate. He’s eating too fast and is no doubt going to have a killer stomach ache later, but he doesn’t care. It just tastes so good.

“Jesus, you’d think they’ve never eaten before,” Cora quips from her place across the table, effectively grounding Stiles. Everyone at the table is staring at them with various degrees of curiosity or disgust.

“I’ve only had mac and cheese once,” Scott admits, surprisingly strong compared to his behavior earlier. Food has always brought out the best in him.

Cora stares at him disbelief. “What?”

“I’ve never had any of this before,” Stiles says to back Scott up.

“Really?” The curly haired boy, Isaac, asks.

“Really,” Stiles replies and takes another bite off the rib.

“They usually only give us like, stuff in cans and bread. Cheese if you trade out some of your other rations. I got to have ketchup on my sandwich the other day because my mom got it as a bonus for her job,” Scott explains. He’s moved on to his second plate, the first wiped clean.

“Rations?”

Scott cocks his head and then glances at Stiles, obviously confused.

Stiles turns to the rest of the table and meets their gaze. “You know like - the limit you’re allowed each month?”

Their stares are blank.

“Two loaves of bread, two pounds of sliced ham, and canned vegetables? Ring a bell?”

It, obviously, doesn’t.

“You have a limit on how much you can eat?” The blonde girl asks.

“Well, yeah,” Stiles laughs, “there’s not a lot of food in the first place.”

“What do you mean?” Asks the boy at the head of the table and he is definitely Markus’ son Derek. Those bushy eyebrows are hereditary.

Stiles scratches at the back of his head as he mulls it over. How do you even explain something like this?

“Because of the riots and stuff, all the food got either destroyed or hauled off. People were burning the fields to the ground and demolishing the factories, so when people started to come out of hiding, they had to start from scratch. There’s enough food, but there’s a limit to it.” It’s a shitty explanation but the others seem to get it from the shared looks they shoot each other.

“What if that isn’t enough for you?” Isaac asks, leaning forward.

Stiles shrugs and moves on to his pasta. “Then you starve.”

“What?” Laura says, voice incredulous. It’s the first time she’s spoken up since sitting down. “Nobody helps you?”

Stiles blinks. They really had no idea did they? This place wasn’t just the Hale house to them, it was their entire world. He had always known humans weren’t allowed to go the Hale house, but apparently the Hales weren’t allowed to leave either. Their knowledge of the outside world is condensed to pack and houses and trees. Ignorance is bliss.

“It’s not that nobody helps you, but more like - look. Say you’ve got a roll.” Stiles steals one of Scott’s as an example, shushing his meager ‘hey’. “This roll is all you’ve got. You know that if you eat this roll, you can make it until the next time you get a roll. It’s not enough but it’s not too little. You stumble upon a stranger. They don’t have a roll at all, so you decide split it with them. Now you have half a roll. You’re hungrier than you were before. Another stranger comes along. They don’t have a roll. You split yours. You divide it and divide it until suddenly, you haven’t eaten in three weeks. See the pattern?”

“So you just let people starve?”

Anger crackles underneath Stiles skin. Clenching his jaw, he narrows his eyes at Cora. “Yes. Because we have to survive.”

“You need a pack to survive-”

“Look. I don’t know you and you don’t know me. You eat like this every day? That’s great. I’m glad for you. But after this meal, I’m going back to processed beans and leathery slices of meat, so could you give a guy some slack and let me splurge a little without the high horse shit?”

Cora reels back, eye flashing, and she opens her mouth and, oh shit, those are fangs. Before she can vault across the table and rip Stiles a new one (literally), a large hand claps her shoulder.

“Cora, how about you go get our guests some refreshments. Lemonade alright, boys?”

Stiles has no idea what lemonade tastes like but he nods his head along with Scott. Cora looks like she wants to argue, but she stalks away with a low growl. A man takes her place.

He’s the hottest person Stiles has ever seen in his life. Period. Neck like a tree trunk, broad shoulders, sharp jaw grizzled with groomed facial hair, bright blue eyes. Jesus. Not actually Jesus, but close enough.

“I apologize for my niece, she can be a little - antagonistic at times,” the man says and stretches out a hand across the table. “Peter Hale. I’m assured you’ve met my sister, Talia.”

Stiles is a little wary about shaking hands, but Peter seems much calmer than Cora and, plus, he sure as hell wasn’t going to pass up an opportunity to touch him.

“Stiles and this is my best friend, Scott.”

“Pleasure to meet you both. Now, I hate to steer the conversation away from its earlier topic, but I’m just curious to hear about what brought you here in the first place. You saved our little Liam, didn’t you?”

At Liam’s name Stiles perks up and scans his surroundings. He completely forgot about Liam.

“Don’t worry, he’s here, just a little shy. Liam?” Peter calls over his shoulder and then Liam comes shuffling into view, barefooted and a different dinosaur shirt on, this one stained.

Liam narrows his eyes as he sidles up on to the bench beside Peter, face scrunching up in that weird expression. Peter wraps an arm around his small shoulders.

This is awkward. “Uh, hey Liam.”

Liam reaches out and tears a chunk of meat off of a chicken wing from Cora’s plate before plopping it in his mouth. “Hey. You don’t have an arrow in you.”

“No, Melissa took it out.”

“Who’s Melissa?”

Scott perks up and grins goofily. “My mom!”

Liam wrinkles his nose and looks Scott up and down. “Who are you?”

“Liam. Be nice,” Peter mutters, pinching his ear slightly. Liam let out a huge sigh, put on upon, before straightening up.

“Is it true your guts really came out when you got shot?”

Groaning, everyone rolled their eyes. Apparently bluntness was a common characteristic for Liam.

Scott, however, looks absolutely horrified. “Your guts came out?”

“Dude, yes I told you. Like twelve times.”

“Yeah but - you - it’s your _guts_.”

“How long did it take you to heal?” Liam cuts in. He’s migrated to standing up and wrapping his arms around Peter’s neck and rubbing his cheek against his hair. It’s a horribly cute sight, especially with Peter in the equation.

“Uh - around a month or so.”

“Wow, that sucks.”

“Liam,” Peter rumbles in a low voice and that should not be as hot as it was.

Liam doesn’t look apologetic though, just even more exasperated. He takes to completely dismantling the chicken wing instead of speaking to Stiles again, which is fine. It would be great to get a little gratitude, but not getting wolfed out on is good enough.

Conversation picks up quickly among the other teenagers, something about their next run, and Stiles opts to keep to himself. Peter keeps sitting across from him but Stiles avoids looking in his direction. He just focuses on down his sandwich and not the dryness of his mouth. Cora sure was taking her sweet time. 

Stiles is on his third plate and Scott has keeled over while he moans about his stomach when Talia steps out on to the back porch. At once every head whips in her direction and the talking quiets. Even the little kids who hadn't stilled for a moment stood in place with eyes fixated on their Alpha. 

Talia raises a glinting glass in the air. Markus steps beside her and winds his arm around her broad shoulders. He's taller and bigger than her, but there's something about Talia that makes her seem like a giant. 

"To Stiles Stilinski," is all Talia says. 

"Stiles Stilinksi," the crowd echoes raising their glasses above their heads and turning to where Stiles is practically oozing off his seat in embarrassment. Scott doesn't have a glass but he lifts up his melted cheese covered spoon and grins wide. Peter stares at Stiles with a small smirk. It sends a surge of heat through his stomach. 

Just like that, it's over. The other werewolves melt back into conversation and Talia steps down to the ground. She basically floats over to the picnic table. 

"I see that the food is to your liking."

Stiles doesn't trust his voice, so he just nods meekly. Talia smiles warmly at him. 

"Would you like to stay a little longer?" Peter asks, his blue eyes boring into Stiles'. Talia shoots him a look, slightly offended like she was just about to ask the very same thing. 

"Longer?"

"Some activities and training, mostly just for fun. I already asked both of your parents and they gave me permission to ask you. No harm will come to you whatsoever. It's completely fine if you don't wish to stay," Talia explains. 

"Werewolf activities?" Scott repeats, forehead crinkled as he frowns. 

"Like sniff-n-search?" Stiles asks. Peter grins wide at that and Stiles flushes. He keeps his eyes trained on Talia. 

"Somewhat," she muses. "Please let me know your decision so I can inform your parents." 

Scott looks at Stiles and raises his brows. 

Stiles can't help but glance at Peter who's staring right back. He swallows, hard, and scrounges up enough courage to speak. 

"We'll stay."

Stiles is staying for the werewolf activities. Not for Peter Hale's muscled arms or straight teeth. And especially not for that dimpled grin. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!  
> catch ur boy on [tumblr](http://sevenyearsdead.tumblr.com/)  
> 


End file.
